


Reach Up and Paint the Sky With Me

by Never_Says_Die



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fusion 'Fic, M/M, Minor Character Death, More angst, Sterek Campaign
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Never_Says_Die/pseuds/Never_Says_Die
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sterek Campaign commission for penult, wherein Stiles is the leader of the ragtag Torchwood team of Beacon Hills, who's waiting for his Doctor to come back and fix him.  Derek is one of the few survivors of the terrible battle that decimated Torchwood's New York office, who's trying to convince Stiles to let him on his team.  But just why is Derek so desperate to stay in Torchwood...particularly the Beacon Hills branch?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reach Up and Paint the Sky With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> So yeah, here's the next of my commissions. Penult wanted a straight up fusion or crossover with Torchwood, and they requested angst. Obviously, I've moved Torchwood over to America, and I think only minimal knowledge of Torchwood/Dr. Who is required to follow along. The character death mentioned should be pretty obvious to anyone who knows the Torchwood season 1 storyline :) Please enjoy!
> 
> For those of you keeping score at home, some loose character equivalents here (I say loose because I'm not planning on having the Teen Wolf characters follow the Torchwood characters' personalities/storylines exactly):  
> Stiles=Captain Jack Harkness  
> Derek=Ianto Jones  
> Lydia= Toshiko Sato   
> Jackson=Owen Harper  
> Erica= Suzie Costello  
> Isaac/Boyd= Gwen and Andy
> 
> Mentioned, but not really appearing in this fic:  
> Allison= The Doctor  
> Scott= Rose Tyler

Captain Stilinski is a means to an end. 

Derek tells himself this firmly as he straightens his cuffs and collar, forces his hands not to shake as he brushes near-microscopic bits of lint from his shoulders. He takes a deep breath and stares at his slightly warped reflection in the ancient, pitted surface of the (shitty) bathroom mirror in his (shittier) motel room. He cannot afford the slightest screw-up today, cannot let nerves get the better of him. He must be cool, poised, perfect…or looser, wild, rough…or some mix of the two…or something else entirely. 

He must be anything that Captain Stilinski wants him to be, because Stilinski is a means to an end, and the last chance he has. Laura is counting on him. If he cannot convince Stilinski to let him transfer onto his team, Laura will most certainly die. A familiar, sick lurch swoops through his stomach at the thought of his sister, and he leans forward to clutch at the sink. He sucks in another gulp of air, pressing his lips together. His knuckles go white with the force of his grip and his breathing grows harsh for a moment before he gets himself under control.

He has to keep himself under control. He is so close, _so close_ to getting Laura to place where he can keep her stabilized, can keep her safe until he figures out a way to reverse what’s been done to her. Can figure out a way to _save_ her. 

He has to save her. It’s his fault she’s like this; it’s his fault she’s lying in a rented warehouse (all of his savings going into keeping and powering the space, while he spends as much time by her side as he can and drifts from cheap motel to cheap motel when he has to travel), bound into a cannibalized and jerry-rigged life-support system-- _conversion pod_ , his mind whispers treacherously—barely conscious most of the time, and in agonizing pain when she’s awake. It’s his fault that his big sister was almost turned into…turned into…

She was not, though. The cybernetic implants that crawl across his sister’s body like cancerous tumors haven’t completely taken her over. Laura—Laura is still in there. She’s still herself, still his sister, and there is _still_ a chance. His desperate searches for assistance are starting to bear fruit…he’s been in contact with a scientist whose research into cybernetics and artificial intelligences are promising. He just has to keep Laura alive long enough to _get_ the man to her, to let him examine her properly. 

One step at a time, he reminds himself. One step at a time, and he cannot think of how insurmountable each of those steps looks from where he is right now. One step at a time. He needs to convince Captain Stilinski to let him transfer onto his Torchwood team. That is all he can focus on right now. Once he’s done that, he can start worrying about the logistics of getting Laura into their base, getting her stabilized, and getting her seen by people who can help. Slowly, slowly, he relaxes his grip on the sink, consciously forcing his shoulders to relax. 

He raises his eyes to the mirror once more, biting his lip for a few heartbeats before he exhales slowly. For Laura. He will do this for Laura. He raises his chin, letting every ounce of the scared, scarred, _stupid_ youth drain out of his features, leaving a blank, professional mask behind. He tugs once more at the cuffs of his dress shirt, and pivots on his heel, striding back out into the motel room. He has a job interview to get to.

* * * 

Of all Torchwood’s many branches across the world, Beacon Hills certainly has one of the most tattered reputations. Were it not for the unusually strong activity around the Rift that cuts almost straight down the center of the city, Torchwood wouldn’t have even bothered with a permanent base. The Los Angeles branch is too far away for major emergencies, though, and so Torchwood Beacon Hills has become the dumping ground, the red-headed stepchild, as it were, the base no one who intends to get anywhere within the institution wants to be assigned to. 

Certainly, Derek never even considered he might end up here. 

He takes a cab to the (surprisingly large, considering the size of the town) warehouse district, and then abandons the vehicle to walk the remaining few blocks to the building that houses Beacon Hills’ not-so-illustrious Torchwood offices. He knows how painfully out of place he looks in his neatly-pressed suit and polished shoes, a leather briefcase—Laura’s birthday present to him last year—dangling from one hand. He looks like a damn yuppie out trying to score some drugs on his lunch break. In New York, his application would have been rejected on general principle just for sticking out like a sore thumb in his surroundings. 

In New York, his suit and tie would have been perfectly acceptable in the gleaming glass and metal of the downtown office tower that housed the Torchwood base. In New York, he was bucking for a field position and never would have considered a demotion to support staff…particularly on a team like Stilinski’s. 

The New York office burned to the ground last month; was nearly the jumping off point of a major hostile invasion. The Ontario branch—now the largest and most senior in the Western hemisphere—is still dealing with the cleanup. Still perpetuating the story of a terrorist attack, still dispensing Retcon like candy to the (few, so few) survivors and witnesses under guise of ‘counseling’. It’s the most ungodly mess that Torchwood has ever seen…which is probably the only reason that Derek managed to escape Manhattan with Laura. Even so, he knows it’s only a matter of time before someone manages to track his records down, and if he’s not safely established with Stilinski’s team by then, well-entrenched as the good little Torchwood employee, he’ll be declared rogue. 

A loose end. 

And he’s seen firsthand what Torchwood likes to do to loose ends, hasn’t he? 

He shakes his head slightly as he at last reaches the building he’s look for, as if he can physically dislodge the dark thoughts that are his constant companions these days. He lets his gaze roam over the graffiti-covered surface of the building that houses the Beacon Hills Torchwood branch, carefully biting down on the instinctive way his lip wants to curl in distaste. He’s done his research. He’s read up on every file he could lay hands on (and a few that he technically shouldn’t be able to lay hands on, but Derek has always been quite good at getting into places he shouldn’t be), and he knows exactly what the unassuming, run-down brick building he’s standing in front of is hiding. 

He raps sharply on the only door not covered by rusted security gates and plywood and draws himself up to his full height, squaring his shoulders, but being sure to relax his expression into something less severe. Laura was forever telling him that he needed to smile more.

She will tell him so again, soon. She will. 

There is a barely perceptible, almost electronic hum from somewhere in front of him, noticeable only because he’s expecting it. He can’t tell where the scan that is no doubt sweeping his body is originating from, but he knows he’s been acknowledged by whoever is manning Stilinski’s base today. He wets his lips a little as the door quietly clicks open, swinging inwards with a rusty groan that is straight out of a horror movie. Despite his determination to stay neutral and professional, his gaze flicks upwards to where he would’ve placed a hidden camera, one eyebrow quirking upwards sardonically. 

Games, then. Fine. He can play games. 

He tightens his hand on his briefcase and steps into the shadowed interior of the building, a flash of confusion sweeping through him when said interior proves to be exactly what one would expect, given the outside of the building. The whole space is lit only by a few bare, dangling lightbulbs and whatever blades of sunlight are filtering through the boarded up windows. Dirt and dust are thick on the floor, drag marks and footprints speaking to frequent travel. Bits and piles of paper, cigarette butts, and random trash are scattered across the floor, along with a few broken pieces of furniture—chairs and what might have been a couple of office desks—and every wall Derek can see from where he’s standing is tagged with spray paint. 

Derek takes a few more steps forward, pausing by the sad remains of a denim-covered couch. The cushions are gone, and most of the springs are poking out of the bottom. He sighs heavily, rolling his shoulders as he listens for any sounds of anyone else in the area with him. From somewhere further in the building, he hears a slow drip of water. Nothing else. He drums the fingers of one hand restlessly against his thigh for a moment, before catching himself and tightening his fingers into a fist. He refuses to give Stilinski’s team—and he knows they’re watching—the satisfaction of seeing the nervous tic. Not that he’s nervous. 

Hales don’t get nervous. 

He waits for another five minutes—five minutes of complete silence, with the only movement coming from dust motes dancing in the odd beam of sunlight—before he starts to get annoyed. He doesn’t have time for this. _Laura_ doesn’t have time for this. He’s here for a damn job interview, not to jump through hoops or be entertainment for Stilinski and his team. Jaw clenching, he sets the briefcase down on the floor beside him and starts turning a slow, complete circle where he stands. His eyes sweep the floor, noting the patterns of the footprints in the dust, looking for the area with the heaviest foot traffic and then…

He tilts his head to one side as he finally spots what he’s looking for: a single place in the floor where the dust is thinner than the rest. More importantly, a single place where he can just barely see a straight-edged seam that runs horizontally across the floorboards. Nodding to himself, he snatches the briefcase back up and strides confidently to the area, eyes tracking that seam in the floor and the way it forms a perfect square just big enough for two people to stand side-by-side on. He steps onto the invisible lift (though, it’s really more of a _nearly_ invisible lift…they’re relying too much on the environment to hide the entrance to their base, and why the hell isn’t the perception filter on? Even if they know he’s Torchwood, it’s foolish risk) and waits patiently for the mechanics to start up. 

This time, his wait is far shorter. With another soft, whirring hum, the square of floor he is standing on starts to sink. He straightens his cuffs again as the lift lowers, silently preparing himself for whatever is coming next. He cannot screw this up. He cannot. Laura is counting on him. The ride is short, and within seconds he is stepping off the lift and onto a platform overlooking the base of Torchwood, Beacon Hills. 

It’s…well, it’s better than he was expecting, given the place’s reputation. The platform leads down into a sunken, circular room. Multiple banks of computers and work stations ring the space, with a large, three-dimensional screen he assumes monitors the Rift activity taking up most of the center of the area. There are several doors and hallways branching out from the room like spokes on a wheel, and a large office space walled off from the rest of the room by clear glass directly across from him. 

“Wow. Five minutes. Took the last guy almost half an hour to find the lift,” someone says from his left. He turns sharply to find a young woman dressed in tight, black jeans and a bright red halter top, over which she’s wearing a plain white lab coat. Her long, blonde hair curls around her shoulders and her lipstick matches her shirt perfectly. She looks him up and down with a smile that is all teeth and dangerous edges. 

“Mmmhmm…and the guy before that just stomped around for twenty minutes and started cursing.” Another voice, also female, carries from the other side of the platform he’s standing on, and when Derek turns toward the sound, he finds another young woman lounging in an office chair by a bank of computers. Unlike the femme-fatale-type beside Derek, this woman is dressed in a simple blouse and flowery skirt, and her red-tinted hair is pulled back in a neat braid. The smile she levels at Derek, though, is every bit as dangerous, and her eyes are sharp. 

Reyes and Martin, then. Field operative and Stilinski’s second-in-command, respectively. That leaves only the medical officer—a Doctor Whittemore, who doesn’t appear to be present—and, of course….

“Okay girls, you had your fun. Now, since this one actually made it down here, can I actually interview him?” 

Derek has to force himself not to jump at the voice that suddenly sounds from directly behind him. He very deliberately exhales through his nose and turns slowly, mentally running down a list of everything he has heard and everything he has managed to learn about the man on whom Derek’s plan—on whom Laura’s _life_ \--hinges. 

Laughing brown eyes meet his and he clenches his jaw as he extends his hand. “Captain Stilinski, I assume?”


End file.
